"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. They are horrible. You’ll have to find someone else. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. ” “I am your friend,” he said slowly, “whatever you may have to tell me. She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. The girl suppressed a chuckle that would have been inexplicable. "Where are the packets committed to your charge by Sir Rowland Trenchard?" "The packets!" exclaimed Kneebone, in alarm. " "I see. And still you interest yourself in my affairs. Without care he will die. ” His walk became a jovial saunter.
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